


Threnodies 7

by theironfist



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Asexual Relationship, Bisexual Oghren, Gen, Genderfluid Character, M/M, Minor Character Death, Political Intrigue, The Grey Wardens are dedicated zombie survivalists, literally everything in this AU revolves around zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-18 02:39:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5894845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theironfist/pseuds/theironfist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair watches his companion try to rub the warmth back into his fingers with a smug twist of his lips, the day is bitingly cold and Alexander would've done well to remember his mittens. "So tell me," he continues blithely, "if you don't believe that a great horde of undead is coming to destroy civilization and eat our flesh, why do you still come with me to every campaign meeting?"</p><p>With the cold and his fair complexion, it really shouldn't be possible for Alexander to turn any redder, but he continues to accomplish the impossible.</p><p>"I like the tea," he sighs wistfully.</p><p>*</p><p>A modern AU in which every conflict to be found in Origins is replaced by the looming threat of an undead horde set out to eat flesh and destroy civilization.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threnodies 7

**Author's Note:**

> I was planning this AU out with my roommate for months before I finally managed to get an actual story out of our ideas. There will be other canon dragon age ships included in the story, as well as a few non-canon ships, but nothing that plays a big enough part to warrant tagging. Right now a lot of the tags are preemptive, but as we get this thing rolling I hope you guys enjoy the story as much as it frustrated me to write it.

The weather in the capital city of Denerim is perfect for an early spring morning. In the lush green trees planted outside the palace, a pigeon perches and preens her feathers, only to be startled into flight by a commotion from the window across. The room within is darkened by thick, drawn curtains, as if it's occupants want not even the sun privy to what transpires within.

"That's enough, Cailain!" Loghain's expression is one of livid anger, his lips pale and pressed tight as he heaves angered breaths through flared nostrils. Across from his desk, Cailan stares back defiantly, his broad shoulders pulled back and his chin held high in challenge. In the dim lighting of Loghain's office he looks painfully like Maric, but this grows easier to ignore every day. "I have indulged your ridiculous fantasies long enough, but you cannot continue to waste resources on the Grey Wardens' ridiculous apocalypse theories!"

"It's not ridiculous! Duncan--" Loghain scoffed at the name and Cailan bristled before continuing on more forcefully. "Duncan assured me that there will be a crisis and we must be prepared. I won't put my people at risk because you think the threat isn't real."

Loghain's smile bared all his teeth, "And remind me again of what this crisis is?"

Cailan met his gaze steadily, "The dead rising from the grave. The Grey Wardens have eyes and ears in places you could not imagine and the worst is coming, Loghain. You can deny it all you like, but I will not risk the people for your doubts."

Loghain attempted to calm himself before speaking again, knowing from experience that the more he snapped at Cailan as though the man were an unruly child the more he would dig his heels in and resist. "The people would be outraged if they learned just how much we've spent on these ridiculous measures."

"We? Loghain I have only spent my own fortune on this project. I could not and nor would I spend tax money on anything not within public knowledge." This heartfelt assurance only seemed to frustrate Loghain even more

He rubbed the bridge of his nose in an attempt to offset his flaring temper "So instead of risking public relations you instead intend to gamble with the fate of the Theirin line? What of my future grandchildren? Are they to grow up as paupers because their father chases baseless fantasy?"

Cailan did not blush at the implication of children, but it was a near thing and he hastily deflected the patronizing question "In comparison to what I have, the funds to jump-start the Grey Warden's contingency measures was a paltry sum, Loghain. When Duncan runs for parliament--"

Loghain interrupts him with a hastily snapped "What?"

His eyes are cold and narrowed now; it is a look that still manages to send chills down Cailan's spine, though he is no longer a boy scuffing his toe in the dirt and shame-facedly apologizing for making Anora cry. He shoulders on against every self-preservation instinct in his body. He is not only a man grown, but a king and he will not be cowed by anyone's displeasure.

"Have you not heard? Duncan is planning to run for a position in the New Year." He meets Loghain's steely gaze head on, "I intend to give him my endorsement come winter; during his campaign announcement."

"You're going to endorse that mad man for political office?" Loghain all but spits. An endorsement is as good as appointing the man to a political position himself. Every candidate ever endorsed by Maric won their election by a landslide; the people loved their king and trusted him to have their best interests at heart. This love and trust now extends to Cailan, but rather than put it to good use he squanders their faith on madness.

When he says as much Cailan only turns from him "I'm tired of this Loghain, you can be as angry with me as you like, but I will not be dissuaded. You have no right telling me where to place my loyalties, especially when you do not know the full scope of what is at stake." He strides away toward the door to Loghain's darkened office, "Please, Loghain, I trust your judgement on every other matter in the kingdom, but just this once--as your king--I am telling you to keep it to yourself"

Cailan leaves the room without giving Loghain a chance to argue further. Loghain seethes as the click of the door echoes in his head. He will have to do something before winter arrives.

*

The days stretch into months and still, Loghain can find no honest recourse. Cailan will not be dissuaded and until Duncan is in office there is nothing he can do to interfere with the man. He looks over the information he has gathered once more, as though seeing the words he's already memorized will bring him new insight.

  
Duncan was born in Highever, to a Fereldan father and a Rivaini mother. He was orphaned at a young age and was in the system for years before he was adopted by a young Orlesian couple. Loghain still can't help his sneer of distaste at that. Normally an Orlesian upbringing would be enough to turn even the staunchest Theirin supporters against someone. The war with Orlais is still fresh in the minds of men his own age, and passed down through the generations in horror stories told by bitter, scarred veterans. But Genevieve and Guy Baudin had led staunch political opposition to the war against Ferelden in their youth. They had claimed in-fighting amongst mankind would be their downfall when the apocalypse came. They had organized protests in the capital of Val Royeaux, organized charity drives for Fereldan civilians impacted by the war, and kicked up such a ruckus over every abuse perpetrated by Orlesian soldiers that they even managed to get a handful court martialed. All while managing to continue spouting their ridiculous apocalypse theories.

They died when Duncan was a young man on a skiing trip in the Anderfels, which struck Loghain as ironic, given that it was undoubtedly the only vacation they had ever taken. The rest of their lives were dedicated to working themselves to the bone. Duncan would've undoubtedly been raised on the same principals; from the work ethic to the obsession with the end of the world.

The Grey Wardens in themselves proved to be a tougher case to crack. Their political party seemed to have sprung up overnight more than a century ago in the era of Tevinter Panic. At the time, numerous rumors circling Tevinter were cropping up all over Thedas. The most popular theory by far was that the Tevinter government was experimenting with biological warfare, supposedly engineering diseases to wipe out entire countries. The Grey Wardens were originally a sect of conspiracy theorists who took the rumors a step further; that the Tevinter government was engineering a chemical weapon to control the dead.

There are still a few records in existence of mysterious outbreaks of sickness in small towns along the Tevinter-Orlais border--towns nobody would even know to miss. The timing is suspicious enough to make at least a few of the theories plausible, but nothing on the scale the Grey Wardens predicted seems even remotely feasible. Loghain can only lament that the incident allowed the Grey Wardens to get their foot in the door.

Despite the fact that it had been a century since the Tevinter Panic, the Grey Wardens are the majority political power in the Anderfels; their voices are heard prominently in Orlais; and though their following isn't quite so large elsewhere, they still hold positions in smaller cities scattered throughout Thedas. Much to Loghain's dismay they were also making a resurgence in Ferelden. Duncan is entrenched with the municipal government in his home city of Highever and has endeared himself to community leaders all over the country.

  
The man has close ties to the Elven representative in Denerim and contacts in the remote Ostagar; he has been taking dinner with the king of Orzammar himself since they were both much younger men and even managed to find allegiance amongst the elusive Dalish clan located to the east. Even Eamon was taken with him, to the point of allowing Duncan to set up an early warning system in the city of Redcliffe and fortifying the local public buildings. Loghain remembers calling Eamon in a fury quite vividly, the rage making his vision hazy around the edges. Eamon had been all too calm in the face of Loghain's ire.

Eamon described Duncan as "a charming man" with "good intentions" and when Loghain pressed him to gauge his reaction to Duncan's obsession with the undead, Eamon only laughed. "Of course I don't really believe it, but Cailan does and I will always offer him any support I can. Duncan does truly seem to have the people's best interests at heart and he spends less time than you think planning for the end of the world."

  
The conversation left Loghain chafed at the thought of Eamon once again getting to be the "fun" one--the "cool" one. Meanwhile Loghain has the unenviable task of being the voice of reason and discipline. It's been this way since Maric's death and will most likely always remain this way.

Feeling a migraine coming on, Loghain sweeps the files and notes before him into an open drawer. He settles back into his chair and wonders: when there is no honest recourse left to a man, what route is he then to take?

*

The streets of Highever are sparkling with large salt crystals, the branches of the sparse trees are dusted in frost, and the pure white snow that blanketed the sidewalks last night is reduced to a thick gray sludge from the work rush foot traffic. Amidst it all a man stands on a lonely corner, huddled into himself to try preserving body heat. It's an exercise in futility.

"Alistair!" The man perks up when he hears a familiar voice call his name.

"Well it's about time! I thought my nose would fall off if I had to wait one more minute for you," he cups his hands protectively over said nose as if to prove his point.

"I'm really sorry about that, Alistair," he tucks a loose strand of red hair behind a pointed ear, the tips of which are practically glowing pink from the weather. "I was up late finishing my coursework and wound up sleeping through my alarm."

Alistair eyes his companion critically, taking note of the darkened skin beneath his hazel eyes and the damp quality of his hair, despite the less than hospitable temperature. As Alistair watches, his pale skin flushes further beneath the onslaught of the chill in the air, almost washing out the myriad of freckles on his face. "One day I'm not going to accept that excuse anymore," Alistair sniffs haughtily.

Alexander only smiles up at him, "Lucky for me that day isn't today. Now hurry, we're late enough as it is." They make their way down the sidewalk together, huddled closer than usual to attempt sharing the heat of their bodies.

The walk is brief, but still long enough for Alistair to notice Alexander rubbing the inside of his elbow with a twinge of pain. "Did you seriously go get your blood drawn again? Alexander sighs at the familiar complaint phrased as a question.

"The Chantry requests monthly samples, Alistair. We've had this discussion all too often." Alistair holds up his hands defensively.

"I know, but it's just... aren't you even slightly suspicious of what the Chantry wants with your blood? What if they're using it to some nefarious purpose?" Alexander stares at him incredulously.

"Like what? My father works for them." He can't help but bristle at Alistair's flippant eye-roll.

"Oh yes because our parents can do no wrong," his sour countenance softened when Alexander only gently hip-checked him.

"Oh, Alistair," his tone was fond if slightly exasperated, "Papa has a good judge of character and--" they're startled mid conversation by the sound of overly loud laughter and nearly slip on the icy sidewalk. Alistair manages to grab hold of a nearby lamppost, barely keeping Alexander upright by hooking his finger's in the elf's collar.

  
The laughter only gets louder at their expense.

Alistair gives the man standing before them a murderous look, "Honestly, Daveth. What in the maker's name is so funny?" With Alexander steady on his feet once more, he finally releases his grip on the lamppost, noting with a grimace that the frosted metal nearly takes his glove clean off.

  
Daveth wipes the tears from his eyes with a cheeky grin, "Ohh I'm sorry lads. Just. Whenever Alexander calls Gregoir 'papa' I picture him with ringlets in his hair and wearing a prep school uniform. It's hilarious."

Alexander and Alistair trade a commiserating look, one they've often shared in the month since they've gotten to know Daveth; the man often has to be hard pressed to be serious, making jokes even in situations where silence would suit better. Alexander continues walking forward regardless, joining Daveth under the awning to their destination, "Did you just get here?"

Daveth scratches at his stubble wearily, "Yeah, had a hard enough time getting out of bed, y'know how it is. I usually pull night shifts and I wish Duncan wouldn't hold these meetings so bloody early in the mornin'." He yawns as if to emphasize his point.

The yawn catches to Alexander, who--at the moment--shares Daveth's sentiment. Unwilling to express his complaint he only says, "Well let's get on inside before you two catch your death, no use standing out here in the cold any longer when we're late as it is." Alistair moves to hold the door open even as Daveth only leers at Alexander with a ridiculous eyebrow movement.

"Yeah I bet you're real eager to get inside, Alex," the elf gives him only a genuine expression of confusion.

"Yes, Daveth, it's cold and my hair is still wet. Now come on, in with you." He shoos the man inside even as Daveth attempts to complain and continue on with his previous thread of conversation. What Alexander's fussiness cannot accomplish, Alistair's bulk at the back of the herd does and soon they find themselves entering a conference hall where Duncan's presentation is already underway.

Duncan gives them only a brief glance before turning his attention back to the crowd at large, though his voice remains steady. His bearing commands the attention of everyone present, so much so that not many take notice of the three slipping silently into the back. Projected directly on the wall behind him are small side articles from several publications in the remote southern territory of Ostagar, all of which describe the emergence of a new outbreak of sickness. So far only twelve people have been afflicted--something not even worth the notice of a headline, but the Grey Wardens are ever vigilant in their intelligence network. Alexander thinks to himself that it must be significant to garner Duncan's notice and as he takes his seat to listen in he finds that he is right.

"So far the numbers are not significant enough to provide the most accurate picture, but the web of information we've been pulling in from the field lately is too suspicious to dismiss. We believe that this could be a sign that Tevinter is once again experimenting with biological warfare and running their tests on the people of Ostagar," a clamor of noise goes up around the room, but Duncan only has to hold up a single finger to bring it to an abrupt end, "while we cannot display our intelligence reports for you all to see I assure you that our information is both well sourced and reliable. The symptoms exhibited by the twelve victims pictured here," he moves onto the next slide of a stranger with their face blurred out lying in a hospital bed. Even through the photo the unhealthy pallor of their skin is clear, an IV drip runs into the vein on their inner forearm and Alexander can only assume they are hydrating for a fever, "match up all too well with the rumors coming out of Minrathous itself. Over the course of the next month we will be widening our web of information to try pulling in something more substantial. We will be keeping a close eye on any developments in Ostagar and may station a few specialists who will attempt to assist the patients currently under the care of the hospital. If any more of our suspicions are confirmed you can expect for a conference to be arranged within the heart of Ostagar. We have already established contact with several officials in the territory to discuss what emergency measures are to be taken in a worst case scenario; including the mobilization of our volunteer group." He goes silent for a moment.

Alexander knows that by "group" Duncan is referring to the militia cobbled together with authorization of King Cailan, though the knowledge is still under wraps at the moment for fear of how the PR would affect Duncan's upcoming parliamentary campaign. Despite his own distaste for violence and weaponry, Alexander signed himself up alongside both Alistair and Daveth. It was in part to look out for the friends he has found within the Grey Wardens, but a smaller part of him--he dismisses the thoughts before they cause heat to rise to his cheeks. Duncan has already continued on, "For now we'll be doing a refresher for the early warning system in Ostagar and evacuation procedures. This includes routes to the nearest fortified public buildings and the best formation to protect civilians. Next week you can all expect to be running drills on our base outside of the city."

His grave expression melts after another moment of silence, "We will be prepared, but for now there is no more information to share. Before you go please help yourself to the refreshments. I will be available for your questions, suggestions, and comments." He waves his hand to dismiss the crowd. Some disperse almost immediately at the all clear sign, others move on to the white table laid out with food, while a few approach Duncan and are welcomed with an open expression. Alexander is frozen where he sits, watching Duncan with all too obvious admiration written all over his features.

His attention is luckily diverted by Alistair standing up, "I'm gonna get some of those cheese cubes before they're all gone again like last week. Alexander do you want anything? Tea?" Alexander nods distractedly, but Alistair barely pays it mind, "With a lemon slice and three sugars, yeah?" Alexander has barely confirmed his usual request before Alistair is off.

Alexander starts when he feels Daveth’s elbow prod playfully at his side, “So,” Daveth begins with a guileless grin, “aren’t you a little too by the book to have a thing for older blokes?”

His grin only widens when all Alexander can muster in reply is to sputter and blush, trying to convey outrage but succeeding about as much as a fish dumped unceremoniously on dry land. He doesn’t bother to deny what Daveth’s insinuating, which is most telling of all. Daveth practically howls with laughter, prompting Alexander to duck as far down as possible when it draws the attention of several other of the room’s occupants, including Duncan. He is, however, as acquainted with Daveth’s antics as one could be and only flashes the man an indulgent smile before returning to his conversation.

Daveth hauls Alexander back up good-naturedly, “I bloody knew it! You’re not even subtle about it, Alex, it’s honestly shameful.”

“Oh Maker,” the elf fusses with his hair nervously, “you don’t really mean that do you? Alistair has never said anything!” The chuckle that statement prompts is not at all reassuring to Alexander.

“Alex… Alistair is a good bloke, but when it comes to social cues? He’s about as helpless as a three-legged kitten,” Daveth puts an arm around his shoulders with a sigh, “I would even venture to say that you’re obvious enough for the old man to have caught on himself.” He holds firm when he feels Alexander jerk in his hold, “Easy there! That just means you can ask him out man-to-man without having to worry about it changing anything! Either he doesn’t mind you making googly eyes at him every time you come in here for a meeting because he likes it, or it just doesn’t bother him enough that he feels the need to act differently around you.”

Alexander bemoans his situation, “I can’t believe I’m getting relationship advice from a man I saw try to use an end of the world pick-up line.”

Daveth’s face breaks out in a smug grin, “Listen, Alex—“, but before he can press Alexander for more than he is ready to divulge Alistair returns to them with Jory in tow.

He carries a mug of tea in one hand and a Styrofoam plate laden with assorted cheese and crackers in the other, “Daveth, you know he hates that nickname, just call him Alexander for Andraste’s sake,” the grateful look Alexander shoots him is slightly puzzling in its intensity though no less satisfying. Alistair hands off the mug of tea, “There you are. I caught Jory here just as he was about to leave.” He gestures to the broad-shouldered man with a receding hairline standing almost directly behind him.

“Hello Alexander. Daveth.” Daveth gives him a cheeky wave at the cold greeting.

Alexander smiles with his mug of tea cradled closely to his face, “It’s good to see you again, Jory. How’s the wife and your little girl?” Jory visibly lights up at the mention of his family.

“Just wonderful, thank you for asking. Ellie managed to hold her head up all by herself a couple of days ago, Helena and I even managed to get it caught on video,” he pulls out his phone to display the video in question.

Alexander and Alistair coo and ‘aw’ appropriately, while Daveth makes no effort to even pretend that he finds the proceedings interesting. Jory cannot wipe the glow of pride off his face long enough even to shoot Daveth the usual scathing glare. “She’s lovely, Jory,” Alistair claps him on the shoulder as if to congratulate him on her birth all over again.

“Thank you, Alistair. Would you lot like to join me for lunch? I was actually about to head out to that new Nevarran restaurant down the block when you caught me,” Daveth can’t help but speak up.

“Why we’d be delighted to join you, Jory, but I’m sure these two will want words with Duncan before heading out. We can go on ahead of them and save a table,” he ignores Jory’s revived sour countenance, knowing that the man is just a bit too polite to let him know he wasn’t included in the initial invitation.

“Good thinking, Daveth,” Alistair pipes in. “We’ll meet you there in a bit.”

Daveth and Jory depart, one speaking as crudely and quickly as possible and the other looking like he may be sick. Before they disappear from sight Daveth gives Alexander one last encouraging salute. Alistair stares after them in amusement, “I don’t know what it is about those two that makes them fight like cats and dogs. You’d think Jory would’ve dropped of a brain aneurysm with as much as Daveth manages to rile the poor man up.”

“Daveth’s only teasing,” Alexander smiles into his tea, “he generally means well. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here.”

“Fair point,” Alistair plops back down into his seat and observes the small group still gathered around Duncan. “I hope this lot don’t take too long though. I’ve heard some great things about Nevarran ham and with everything going on at the moment there’s no way that Duncan will be able to take a moment out to come with us.” This last bit was said all in a rush and colored Alistair’s expression with slight guilt.

“It really is too bad, I enjoy his company so much and I know you two haven’t had as much contact with the upcoming campaign. Now this business in Ostagar…” Alistair gives his friend a grateful smile.

“He seems to find the time for Cailan nowadays, though. It’s a bit too familiar for comfort,” his laughter is strained, but Alexander doesn’t call him out on it.

“You’re definitely Duncan’s favorite, Alistair, you don’t have to spend all night talking about undead and waving around massive amounts of money around for Duncan to want to spend time with you,” he sends a mental apology out to Cailan, but being a bit unfair with the man is worth it to see his friend’s spirits brighten.

“Alexander, you’re too nice to really mean that but I appreciate the effort,” their conversation lapses into silence, both of them watching as the people who have gathered around Duncan thin themselves out.

When he finally has a moment, Duncan makes a beeline for them across the room, “Ah Alistair, I’m glad to see you,” he flashes Alexander a brief smile and with Daveth’s words ringing clearly in his head, the elf makes his best effort not to visibly melt, though it feels as if his innards have turned to marshmallow puff. “I’d like you to send out a memo to everyone in the volunteer militia about increased training hours,” Alistair doesn’t have to hide how much the words startle him.

“Is it really that serious?” Duncan’s mouth is a thin line.

“It helps to always prepare for the worst case scenario Alistair; you all have done remarkably well since we’ve started up the militia here in Ferelden, but I worry for you still.” He lets out a deep breath to soothe the worried lines on his forehead, “We will discuss it more at the next meeting, but I hold you in the highest confidence Alistair; if there’s anything I could not share with the others you—“ he stops himself to look at Alexander once more, “both of you—can have access to it.”

“I trust you, Duncan, absolutely. There’s no need,” Alistair assures him with a conviction that Alexander does not feel, but struck dumb by Duncan’s show of confidence and trust he cannot summon up the words or gestures to disagree.

*

“Do you truly think we will have to travel south to Ostagar in the coming months?” Jory asks worriedly, the frown lines around his mouth deepening at Alistair’s noncommittal shrug.

“Him and the other senior Grey Wardens don’t worry like this over nothing is all I’m saying,” he chews noisily on a breadstick as if to divert Jory’s attention from him.

“Helena is sure that Ellie could be up and walking by the end of the year, what if I were to miss it?” Daveth makes his disbelieving scoff louder for Jory’s benefit.

“Better you miss her first steps than have her mum turn into a mindless flesh eater,” the look Jory shoots Daveth would probably drop a lesser man dead to the floor. “Jory, what are you even doing with us lot if you don’t want to help protect people from the dead rising?”

Jory scratches at his nose abashedly, “I’m running for a district position here in Highever and the Grey Wardens were the best option for getting my foot in the door for politics. Duncan is very forthcoming about the election process and I’ve learned a great deal from the time I’ve spent with the Wardens, but I just can’t bring myself to believe that after all these years, Tevinter would still sink resources into a biological weapon so outlandish.”

Daveth crushes the ice between his teeth murderously, “You’re a right fuckin’ knob, ya know that?”

“Daveth.” Alexander reprimands sternly, his hands busily stirring away at the tea in front of him, pausing when Daveth huffs through his nostrils like an angry druffalo. “Don’t Daveth, it’s lunch. Let’s discuss something else.”

Jory grumbles something unintelligible beneath his breath, but Alistair happily complies with the plan and starts to speak animatedly about the latest upcoming movies. When the checks are divvied up and paid, Daveth and Jory make a clean break for it, both in visibly fouler moods than when they first arrived.

Alistair and Alexander both linger beneath the canopy to the outside café for a moment longer after their departure, “Don’t think I didn’t notice how suspiciously quiet you were back there, Alexander.”

Alexander makes sure to position his bare fingers so that his fond huff makes an attempt to warm the skin at the same time, “I don’t like to upset Daveth, but Alistair, you know I don’t believe in all this end of the world stuff.” He eyes Alistair’s gloves almost jealously even as he speaks.

Alistair watches his companion try to rub the warmth back into his fingers with a smug twist of his lips, the day is bitingly cold and Alexander would've done well to remember his mittens. "So tell me," he continues blithely, "if you don't believe that a great horde of undead is coming to destroy civilization and eat our flesh, why do you still come with me to every campaign meeting?"

With the cold and his fair complexion, it really shouldn't be possible for Alexander to turn any redder, but he continues to accomplish the impossible.

"I like the tea," he sighs wistfully.

Alistair laughs at the blatant deflection, “I’ll pry your secrets out of you yet, Alexander, just you wait and see.” Alexander’s thoughts fill with kind eyes, crinkled at the edges with age and laughter.

“You’ll be sure to let me know then, won’t you?” Alistair wraps a companionable arm around Alexander’s shoulders to more effectively stave off the cold.

“Count on it.”

*

Loghain can scarcely believe what he has accomplished since he made the unenviable decision to circumvent the path of the honorable man. In retrospect, everything he has done was almost terrifyingly easy to accomplish, to the point that he must wonder how many of his colleagues traveled similar roads simply to get to where they are today.

“Loghain,” Rendon Howe’s voice interrupts his thoughts and Loghain has no doubts that one such colleague stands before him now. In truth, Loghain always had his suspicions about Howe before; to the point that the man was the first person he reached out toward when the only solutions lying before him were dishonest and dishonorable. Were he not on the same boat as the man now, having his suspicions confirmed before would’ve landed Howe in a jail cell.

If everything does not go according to all their carefully laid plans they may end up sharing a similar fate.

“Loghain,” Howe cuts in again. “Sweet Maker, man, what has gotten into you? You looked a thousand leagues away.”

“Just thinking, Howe,” Loghain grunts. “Is everything in place?”

Howe nods in the affirmative, “Duncan has announced today that the Grey Wardens will be travelling south to Ostagar. The outbreaks of fever in the territory are getting out of hand and the man claims they have ‘specialists’ who can assist.” Loghain sneers at the mention of the man, as well as at the idea of what kind of specialists he could possibly want to inflict upon the sick.

“You’ve taken care of their frivolities in Ostagar, then? Cailan and I will be following them soon.” There is nothing pleasant in Howe’s smile.

“Yes, what palms money could not grease, a certain brand of coercion could,” he doesn’t even flinch away from the implications. Privately, Loghain marvels at the kind of man he is becoming.

“Good. Look after my affairs here in Denerim. I will return soon with one less problem weighing on my shoulders,” Howe’s bow is almost deep enough to be mocking.

“As you wish, your majesty,” and the honorific not at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if this chapter is a little bare bones! I don't want to give too much away yet, but there's a lot more to come. I've got to admit that I've given myself a pretty ambitious undertaking here, but I'll manage. I'll try to keep a steady update schedule and get this baby wrapped up quick so I can keep going.


End file.
